for a few days
after
a surgeon takes a scalpel
to my body,
i am forced
to grow
still.
i am not made for this.
i fight
to move
to stand up
to change my life
without needing any help.
there are mountains to climb
and a valley
to find my way out
of.
it hurts.
they said it would
take
time
that i do not know how to give.
but every slow-gold afternoon
after we have had our lunch
and
after i have filled my pockets
with plans,
my son carries his pillow,
blankets,
bears.
into my room
where he climbs
onto my bed,
curls up
softly
into the roundness of my hip
the quiet place that
only he knows
as home.
i am this
to him.
still.
his breath warm on my shoulder,
a whisper
…isn’t this nice, mom?
— after the scalpel.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photography by Annie Spratt.
liezel graham 
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